A Brush with Death
by Diana the Burninator
Summary: A little boy spends some time with Death and confronts his own mortality.
1. Only Sleeping

Author's Note: This is one of a group of stories I wrote a few years back, which I've finally decided to post here. Like I said, they're not very recent, so don't expect anything profoundly wonderful, but I hope the readers here enjoy them.  
  
Disclaimer: Death and all Sandman characters are the creations of Neil Gaiman and Mike Dringenberg and trademarks of DC Comics and Vertigo. Tristan is my creation and not to be used in any stories without my permission. This is a labor of love, and no money is being made off of it. Yadda, yadda, yadda...  
  
On with the show!  
_________________________________________________________________  
  
Part 1 - "Only Sleeping"  
  
Tristan struggled to keep his eyes open as he watched the cartoon cat get beaten up by the "giant mouse" on television. The Loony Tunes marathon was almost over. It was getting late, though. He should have been in bed an hour ago. He took another sleepy bite of his Choco Crispies, some of the brown milk spilling onto his lap. The boy gulped the spoonful down as quickly as he could.  
  
From outside the house, he could hear his father's truck pull up. The light from the headlights shone through the front windows and onto the wall briefly before he heard the engine turn off. The boy's heart pounded, and he hurried to the kitchen to empty out his half-eaten bowl of cereal.  
  
He heard the front door open and slam shut as his father entered the house. "Margie?" a slurred voice called in. A tall man stepped into the little room. "Hon?" As he spied his son by the sink, his voice became darker. "What're you still doin' up, huh?"  
  
Trembling slightly, Tristan's hands slipped on the bowl, and brown slush poured down his front, staining his shirt and pants. The bowl fell to the floor with a crash, breaking into a thousand sharp little pieces and scattering across the floor.  
  
The man before him clutched his fists in anger. "Look what you did, ya little bastard!" He reached out and grabbed Tristan's arm, pulling him closer. Tristan could smell the beer on his father's breath. It terrified him. "You oughta be in bed! When I come home, I don't wanna find you sloppin' cereal all over yerself and breakin' our dishes!" The man yanked at his son's arm, trying to make him stop struggling. "Ya got me?" Tristan could feel the soft skin of his arm begin to bruise.  
  
"Stop it, Dad!" he cried. "I'll just go to bed!"  
  
"Not yet," his father replied with a touch of drunken menace in his voice. "Look at me, goddammit!" The boy obeyed, however reluctantly. Tristan looked into his father's eyes, which were glazed over from one too many down at the local bar. He knew from experience that his father's drinking left him uninhibited, and he never remembered what he'd done the next day. His father would always wonder about the strange marks left on Tristan's tan arms. The boy never had the heart to tell his father -- or anyone else, for that matter. He loved his father, but right now, he was scared of him. In a desperate surge of energy, he slipped himself out of his father's fumbling grasp and darted back into the living room. His father chased after him. "Come back here, boy!"  
  
"No! Leave me alone!" Tristan's scared voice answered. The couch was the only thing separating the boy from his father's hands and unruly fury. The man rounded one end of the couch, grabbing for his son's wet shirt. On instinct, Tristan ran on the other side near the door that let down to the basement. The door was already open. He knew he could run down there and hide in one of the boxes. His father would be too inebriated and exhausted to search every box and find him. He inched toward the door backwards, keeping an eye on his father, who decided to take a friendlier approach.  
  
"C'mon, Tristan! I won't hurt ya!" Tristan, the heels of his bare feet barely poking over the edge of the top step, froze. Finally, his father's rage erupted, and he lunged for the boy. "C'mere!"  
  
Tristan screamed and lost his balance at the top of the stairs, falling backwards. He disappeared into the shadows beyond the door's threshold, his yells silenced by a series of crashes and a sudden, hollow thud from the bottom of the staircase.  
  
His father, suddenly sobered by the shock, called down to him. "Tristan?? Are you all right, son?" He quickly ran down to the cellar, using the wall to steady himself, and switched on the light. His son was a crumpled heap on the floor, a puddle of oil soaking into his wavy brown hair. His eyes were closed, and blood trickled from a gash on his forehead, staining the concrete floor. The man, sticken by guilt, hugged his son and cried salty tears. He picked Tristan's small head off of the floor and cradled it. "Wake up, Tristan. Please wake up...."  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
"How did it happen, exactly?" asked the doctor.  
  
Tristan's father looked guilty and ashamed, but he wasn't about to admit anything. "He fell down the steps...."  
  
His wife held his hand trustingly. "Can you do anything?" She tried to peek into the room where Tristan was being treated. She hated having to wait out in the hall, away from her son. "Will he be all right?"  
  
The doctor gave a sigh, slightly worrying the two parents in from of him. "We don't know. Right now, he seems to be...resting."  
  
Tristan's mother's eyes widened. "You mean he's in a coma?"  
  
"I wouldn't call it that. Not yet. It's very possible that he'll wake up within a few days or even a few hours. However," the white-coated man cautioned, "he could stay like that for weeks. The shock to his nervous system was great. It's even conceivable that he might have brain damage from the blow to his head." He surveyed the horrified looks from the two. "I'm sorry...."  
  
"Oh, God, no!" cried the mother. She buried her face into her husband's arm, her tears wetting his sleeve.  
  
The husband tried to comfort her. "Can we go see him?"  
  
"Yes. His stitches should be nearly finished by now." He led Tristan's parents though the door into the white, sterile room. A single, small bed sat by a small hospital window. Through it, the sun could be seen rising. There lay poor Tristan, his eyes still shut, his chest rising and falling in perfect rythm.  
  
The woman who had been crouching beside him stood up and snapped her little bag closed. "You're his parents, huh?" she asked in a surprisingly cheerful demeanor. "Well, I've stitched and bandaged him up. He has a broken ulna in his right arm, a few cracked ribs, and a nasty gash on his head, but I think he'll be all right as soon as he comes to." Her voice was comforting to Tristan's mother and father. "You may have some time alone with him, if you like," she told them.  
  
"Thank you," Tristan's mother said quietly. The two medical professionals made a discreet exit and left the young patient with his family.  
  
"God, Margie, I'm sorry," the father apologized. "I should have..."  
  
"It's all right, dear. It wasn't your fault." His heart wrenched at her last words. He knew it was his fault.  
  
Margie brought a chair up the the side of Tristan's bed and sat, making sure not to upset any of the equipment in the room. She took his still hand and held it between hers. "Come back to us, okay...?"  
  
The words of his mother echoed in Tristan's ears. "I'm here!" he tried to cry. His lips wouldn't move. He was paralyzed. He couldn't even open his eyes. Tristan wanted to cry. His father had scared him, but it was never like this. This fear overcame him, seemed to choke him. He wanted to take in deep breaths, but his lungs stubbornly continued with their shallow steady pace. He wanted to cry out, scream with all his might, but he couldn't. Little Tristan tried to thrash. All of a sudden, he felt something. He sat up and looked around. His mother still sat beside him, stroking his left hand, waiting for his eyes to open. He lifted his left hand to look at it. Somehow, it still sat motionless with his mother. How could this be?  
  
Tristan got out of the bed to see his parents looking at his unconscious body. But it was just his body. He was standing outside of it, watching everything. Not really standing. His feet didn't touch the floor. He was floating. The boy felt himself rising up above the room. Before he knew it, he was above the hospital. He pulled himself back down, afraid of what might happen should he go up too far.  
  
Tristan landed, more or less, across the street from the hospital. It was early morning. It must have been hours since he fell....  
  
A sudden, panicked thought reach Tristan's brain. "Am I dead?" he asked himself outloud. He felt alive. Just...free. Like his body had been holding him down his whole life, and now that he had left it, he felt really alive. He'd always imagined death much differently. This was something else. Something else entirely.  
  
His feet still not quite touching the ground, the boy who had escaped his body walked over to an old man sitting on a bench, feeding the pidgeons. He looked homeless. "'Scuse me, mister?" He got no response. "Mister?" He reached out his hand to shake the man's shoulder, but it had no effect. His hand merely passed through the man. Needless to say, it startled Tristan greatly.  
  
He walked through the pigeons, not disturbing even one feather. "Whoa. This is pretty weird."  
  
"Hey!" came a voice from behind him. He whirled around to see a young pale woman with a definitely disapproving look on her face. She was all in black, and a weird symbol hung from a necklace around her neck. It looked like a cross with a loop on the top. It looked strangely familiar to Tristan, as did she. He felt as if he'd seen her before. The girl approached him. "What are you doing out like this?"  
  
"Y-You can see me?" he stuttered.  
  
"Of course, I can see you!" She was obviously upset with him, but there wasn't any malice behind it. It seemed like the kind of anger you got from your mother when you were out too late, and she was worried about you. Like she was mad because she loved him and didn't want him hurt. "You shouldn't be out here, you know." Her voice was calmer now.  
  
He lowered his head a bit, as if in shame. "I know."  
  
The girl sighed. "What am I going to do with you?" She took his hand. "What do you want to do?"  
  
"Huh? What do you mean?" He really didn't mind her taking his hand even though he usually didn't like to be touched by strangers. She was different. After all, she could see him.  
  
"I'm giving you a choice. Do you want to come with me or go back to your parents?"  
  
"I don't understand. Who are you?" He shook his head in bewilderment.  
  
"I'm a friend." She smiled. "Look, I know you're hurt pretty badly. This is a rather special situation. Most people don't get a choice. You do."  
  
"I do?"  
  
"Yeah, Tristan."  
  
"How'd you know my name."  
  
"I know the names of all of my friends," she replied playfully. Seeing the noticably confused look on the boy's face, she felt the urge to explain. "You see, you've been through a pretty bad experience. Got pretty banged-up, huh?"  
  
Tristan nodded his head.  
  
"Well, that means that you've gone sort of...'asleep.' It means that you can go one of two ways. But it's your call, little guy." Her cheerful smile drooped a tiny bit. "Sorry to put so much pressure on you, but you're the only one who can do this. It's kind of out of my jurisdiction to decide for you."  
  
"What are my choices?"  
  
"Simple: you can either come with me to the sunless lands, or you can go back to your body."  
  
Tristan thought about that still, empty shell still lying on that sterile hospital bed. Did he really want to go back?  
  
The young woman tapped her foot. "Well?"  
  
"I...I don't know."  
  
She smiled down at him, perfect white teeth showing from behind her black lipstick. "Tell you what, Tristan. I'll show you."  
  
Tristan cocked his little scruffy head. "Show me what?"  
  
Holding him by the hand, she began to fade into the air, him with her. "You'll see."  
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Chapter Notes: Before anyone asks, no, I've never been abused in my time. As such, I can't really say for sure how accurately I portray domestic violence, but I think it serves... 


	2. The Sunless Lands

Author's Note: This is one of a group of stories I wrote a few years back, which I've finally decided to post here. Like I said, they're not very recent, so don't expect anything profoundly wonderful, but I hope the readers here enjoy them.  
  
Disclaimer: Death and all Sandman characters are the creations of Neil Gaiman and Mike Dringenberg and trademarks of DC Comics and Vertigo. Tristan is my creation and not to be used in any stories without my permission. This is a labor of love, and no money is being made off of it. Yadda, yadda, yadda...  
  
On with the show!  
_________________________________________________________________  
  
Part 2 - "The Sunless Lands"  
  
Tristan could feel her hand still holding his. However, he couldn't see it. "Where are we?"  
  
Her voice emerged from the blackness. "Nowhere...right now."  
  
"Oh..." Tristan sniffed the environment around him. He could usually identify a place by its scent. This place had no scent. He wasn't sure if it was because it was literally nowhere or if it was because his actual nose was still with the rest of him, back in the hospital. He could see hear and feel things. It would make sense if he could use his other senses, as well.  
  
"Don't worry. We're going somewhere."  
  
There was silence for a moment. "Who are you? I know you're not just any old person."  
  
Tristan heard her sweet laugh. "No. I'm not a person. I'm someone that everyone meets eventually."  
  
"Who?" he insisted. "I want a name."  
  
"Oh, Tristan. Kids these days... You sure you really want to know?"  
  
A pin point of light emerged in the darkness. It seemed at the same time right in front of his face and thousands of miles away. Maybe he was imagining it.  
  
"All right, then." She sighed. "I'm Death."  
  
"I thought I wasn't dead!" Tristan exclaimed, his voice cracking slightly.  
  
"For the last time, you're not. I have some special duties besides a posthumous escort. You'd be amazed how many people just wander away from their bodies." Her hand squeezed a bit. "I can't let you people just go around like that. It's too dangerous. I'm lucky that I found you when I did. I've had some people missing for years."  
  
The light was bigger now, and it was growing rapidly, like the light of an approaching train. It was so bright....  
  
"We're almost there, kid. Hold on."  
  
The light erupted and engulfed them, surrounding them in blinding brilliance. Tristan covered his eyes in pain and held his fingers there until the stinging faded away. He wondered if he had been permanently blinded.  
  
He felt a hand on his face. "Hey, it's okay. You can look now." Trisan opened his eyes to see Death's pale face. "Sorry," she apologized. "I guess I should have warned you about that."  
  
Death turned away from him to let him take in the scenery all at once. Even though it wasn't incredibly amazing in any way, it was like nothing Tristan had ever seen. The thing that confused the boy most was the sky's lack of a sun. The strangely grayish shy was illuminated, but by what?  
  
The girl, even though Tristan now knew that she wasn't really a human, stood with him in the middle of a large meadow, nothing but sky, clouds, and grass for miles. She was still holding his hand. "This is it?" he asked.  
  
"Well, yes and no." She led him through some of the grasses, which came up to nearly chest height on him. "The sunless lands aren't as much a place as a state of mind. You obviously haven't had much time to build up in your mind of what the afterlife is like. As a result, it looks a little...plain."  
  
Tristan nodded, getting close to understanding.  
  
"I'm not sure how I could explain it. It's just different for everyone."  
  
He stared at the horizon, wondering if maybe there were more interesting places just beyond it. "This is Heaven?"  
  
"Hmm...that's a toughie. You see," Death said, crouching down so that they were eye-to-eye, "it has many different names. Some people would call it Heaven. Some call it Valhalla. Nirvana. Elysium. Summerlands. There are too many names to, well, name."  
  
"Oh..." Tristan looked around. "Is there anybody else here?"  
  
Death almost laughed. "More people than you can possibly imagine! In fact, most aren't people. Not as you picture them, anyway. Humans aren't the only ones who die, you know."  
  
Tristan grunted slightly. "It's kind of...boring...."  
  
"I grant you that," she replied. "But it doesn't have to be." A large orange ball appeared in her hand. "Here." She threw it to him. He caught it. "Nice catch."  
  
"A ball?" He studied it, even sniffing it a few times for good measure.  
  
"Throw it into the air."  
  
"Huh?" He looked up at her, a lock of dark hair falling into his eyes.  
  
"Throw it into the air," she repeated. "Go on."  
  
"Okay..." Tristan tossed it into the air and caught a huge diamond, the size of his fist. It shimmered and sparkled in his fingers. "What?"  
  
"You see, in this place, you can do anything," she explained briefly.  
  
Tristan stared at the diamond in his hands, his eyes beginning to take on the same sparkle. "Really...?"  
  
Death grinned. "Yeah. Really."  
  
His tan face became serious. "There must be a Hell. If there's a Heaven, that is."  
  
Death suddenly looked uncomfortable. "There is, but I don't think you wanna see it. You're a little young."  
  
Tristan smiled it off. "Let me try." He closed his eyes and pointed a finger out to the side. Blue daffodils began to sprout from the ground beside him. He smiled when he saw them. "I did that?"  
  
"You sure did." Death placed a hand on his shoulder. "This can be a wonderful place, Tristan."  
  
"Wow." Tristan imagined all the wonderful things he could do and make here. He could make it just like his house. Even better. It could be a perfect world except...he wouldn't have his parents or anyone there to share it with him. There were certainly others somewhere, if he could only find them.... "If I want, I can stay here, can't I?" He looked up at her questioningly.  
  
"If you want..." Her face became solemn. "Tristan, what do you want?"  
  
The boy shook his head. "I still don't know. What about Mom and Dad?"  
  
"They'd be sad for a while." She saw the concerned look in Tristan's eyes. "Do you want to go somewhere else to talk about it?"  
  
He lowered his head slightly in agreement. "Yeah, okay."  
  
Death promptly took both of Tristan's hands. "Let's go back to my place."  
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Chapter Notes: Don't read too much into my then-interpretation of the Sunless Lands. I know some people read a lot of religious context into these things, but I'm a supporter of the idea that whatever you believe is right for you, something that Neil promoted throughout the series. 


	3. Death's Door

Author's Note: This is one of a group of stories I wrote a few years back, which I've finally decided to post here. Like I said, they're not very recent, so don't expect anything profoundly wonderful, but I hope the readers here enjoy them.  
  
Disclaimer: Death and all Sandman characters are the creations of Neil Gaiman and Mike Dringenberg and trademarks of DC Comics and Vertigo. Tristan is my creation and not to be used in any stories without my permission. This is a labor of love, and no money is being made off of it. Yadda, yadda, yadda...  
  
On with the show!  
_________________________________________________________________  
  
Part 3 - "Death's Door"  
  
"I never thought Death's house would look like this," Tristan commented, lightly tapping a finger on the outside of the fishbowl. The goldfish inside didn't respond.  
  
Death flopped down in an old, green armchair. She put her arms behind her head. "Well, this is the way I like it. It's been a while since I redecorated."  
  
Tristan took his attention away from Death's fish and looked back at her. "I always expected there to be bats...or something like that."  
  
"I can make bats, if you want," she answered nonchalantly.  
  
Tristan looked uncertain. "That's okay."  
  
He walked past a stack of record albums to a picture hanging on the wall. Death was sitting in the middle of a bunch of strange-looking people. A girl with wild orange, pink, and blue hair. A man dressed in a long grey robe, which covered his eyes. Some sort of short, fat midget-woman. Tristan stared. A couple of them looked familiar, but he couldn't place them. "Who are these people?"  
  
Death stood up and walked over. "Oh, that's my family." She began to point to each of them, as if introducing them. "Despair. Desire. Destiny. Delirium. Dream." Her hand drooped a bit as she seemed to remember something. "There's another brother. Destruction. But I haven't seen him in I don't know how long. It's been at least three centuries." She bit her lip a little and went back over to sit down. Right before reaching the beat-up chair again, she turned back around. "Would you like cocoa?"  
  
He wasn't sure what to say. "Uh...yeah."  
  
Death smiled again and walked over to a small kitchen on the right. "I don't get many guests, so I have plenty," she said as she put a pot of water to boil.  
  
Tristan looked back at her, almost afraid to ask what he knew he should. "Do you miss your brother?"  
  
She grinned almost as if it was a silly question. "Yes...I miss him. But I keep busy enough so that it doesn't bother me too much."  
  
Giving a sigh, Tristan sat down on love seat in the middle of the room. "Yeah, well, at least you're not an only child."  
  
Death poured the hot water into two black mugs and added the cocoa powder. Tristan could hear the clink-clink of a spoon mixing the two together. "You want marshmallow?" she called.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Death came in, carrying the two mugs. She handed one to him. Tristan just looked into the brown water and watched the white fluff in the middle begin to melt.  
  
She took a sip of hers. "So, what's it gonna be?"  
  
"I'm not sure I want to go back. You know a lot about me, don't you?"  
  
Death nodded. "I know a lot of things about your life, including why you might not want to go on."  
  
"It's Dad...."  
  
She nodded again. "I know."  
  
"It wouldn't be so bad if there was someone else. I don't have any brothers or sisters, and I'm afraid to tell Mom. If I told anyone at school, I know they'd put me in a foster home or something." Tristan finally drank some of his drink. He didn't seem to enjoy it. "I love Dad, but I'm not sure I want to go on like that anymore."  
  
"What about your mother?"  
  
"I love Mom, too. I don't want to leave her behind, but I think that may be what I have to do."  
  
"Maybe."  
  
Tristan tugged at his hair lightly and thought about that cage of flesh and bone lying in the hospital, his mother stroking his still hand. "I'm tired of hiding from him. I don't want to be scared anymore...."  
  
Death put her hand on his. "Whatever you decide, you have to be sure that it's right. You can't just change your mind five minutes later."  
  
The boy sniffled a bit and turned his face away, trying to hide the hot tears invading his eyes.  
  
"People can change, you know. It doesn't always have to be like this. All you have to do is tell someone what's going on. Even saying something to your father would help. It can get better, I promise. I've seen cases like this before. You dad really does want to change. All you have to do is help him...." Death looked upon the boy sympathetically and rubbed his hair lightly. "Could you do that?"  
  
"Yeah, I guess." He looked up at her, the tears receding. "Could I stay with you?"  
  
"What?" Genuine shock came over Death's face.  
  
"Stay with you. Can I? You could be my sister."  
  
She shook her head. "I'm sorry, but that's impossible. Even if you could stay here, I'd still have to perform my function. You wouldn't be able to see me much."  
  
"Oh..." Tristan wiped his nose with a sleeve. "That's what I thought you'd say." He paused, suddenly embarassed. "Did...did you mean it when you said that things could get better? They could change?" Hope began to shine throguh in his voice.  
  
She smiled suddenly. "Yes, I meant it. All things can change. Things change or die. It's a fact. I should know."  
  
"I guess you would." Tristan finished his cocoa.  
  
Death stood up, leaving her cup on the coffee table. Tristan followed her without knowing why. Death suddenly held a pair of scissors. "It's time to make the decision. It can't be dragged on any further." She reached behind him and pulled back a silver thread which Tristan hadn't noticed before. "I can simply cut this, and you'll stay in the sunless lands." She opened and closed the scissors, as if demonstrating the action. "Or you could follow it back to your body."  
  
He looked at the silver strand between Death's fingers. It was startlingly thin, as if the slightest jar could break it. Was his hold on life really that tenuous? Tristan took the string from her white hands. She understood his decision. As he left the room, silently gathering the cord of life in his hands, he heard Death's friendly voice call once more to him:  
  
"See you later."  
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Chapter Notes: Not much to say. I've just always wanted to write a scene at Death's house. 


End file.
